


Chew the meat and hold it down

by Garecc, Gunpowderdtim (Garecc)



Series: Ready, Aim, Fire [4]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: (?), (bertie), Angst, Cannibalism, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Malnutrition, Minor Character Death, Sad Ending, Starvation, War, War Crimes, i litterally cannot stress the cannibalism enough here, no beta we die like bertie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27103630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garecc/pseuds/Garecc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garecc/pseuds/Gunpowderdtim
Summary: In which Bertie dies, and Tim isstarving.
Relationships: Bertie & Gunpowder Tim (The Mechanisms)
Series: Ready, Aim, Fire [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799860
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	Chew the meat and hold it down

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from A Tale They won't Believe by captain tractor, which is a song about cannibalism.

Hunger is a feeling that is not easily ignored.

Hunger is an instinct.

Hunger is a force.

Hunger is an ache that rolls through you. 

Hunger curls through you in sharp pains, in agitation, in anger and desperation.

Telling you to eat.

Telling you to just eat _something. Anything._

There was never much to eat on the moon. Shipments of food, of supplies coming in somewhere between not for a month and almost never. And only ever seemed to actually contain much of anything edible when the supply of bullets dwindled.

The food they do contain doesn't last long, eaten in mere weeks by desperate soldiers. It tastes of bland powder and dust. The ghost of triple baked bread.

When the rations run out, and they _always do,_ well.

They make do.

Corpses were never left to rot, not here, 

Meat was meat, after all.

Meat was meat.

No matter the source.

Some called it corpsemeat, tried to distance just what they were eating from its origin. Corpsemeat could be anything. All meat was from some sort of corpse. 

But it was Human meat, and they were eating it.

Tim had seen people die of Prion Disease, see them waste away. 

He had eaten their corpses after without a hint of irony. Chewing the meat and swallowing it. 

It tasted like a mix of beef and pork. 

It tasted _good_ sometimes. Tasted better than the rations at least. And Tim hates it, hates that the taste isn’t awful, that it doesn't taste like death and gore and _bad._ He hates that he doesn't hate it. He hates himself for it.

While it didn't taste like misery, despair, and terror, it certainly felt like it. Every bite another ounce of fear. 

But he ate it anyway, because hunger is a hard feeling to ignore.

Tim didn't ignore it, the hunger, as he curled over his knees, shaking. Shaking and shaking as he tried to do anything but smell the flesh cooking. As he tried to do anything but feel the aching stabbing hunger in his stomach.

Meat might be meat, but _Bertie_ is _Bertie_.

And Tim was _not_ eating Bertie.

No matter how his hands shook from hunger. No matter how much his head pounded. No matter how starving he was, he _wasn't going to eat his best friend._

He wasn't.

_He wasn't._

Another pang of hunger ripped through his stomach. He hasn’t eaten in days now and felt fainter by the hour.

The idea of eating the day Bertie died had made him feel sicker than he already was. 

Tim thought back to the day he and Bertie landed. The day he and Bertie stepped into hell. 

Hell wasn't the center of the earth, it was here. The fucking moon. 

Tim’s uniform had been a tad small on him then, he had complained about it as they walked, arm and arm.

They had heard rumors, sure, about how awful it would be. 

But nothing had prepared him for this, for now.

Nothing had prepared him for the crawling hunger, the grief, the gas and the terror.

Nothing had prepared him for the foxholes and the fear.

Nothing prepared him for this.

The coat was too big on him now, he’d always been slight, but now he looked almost skeletal. He could fold himself under it, clinging to any warmth it gave him.

Tim twirled his dog tags around his fingers, eyes shut tightly as he did _not_ think about what was being served in tonight. 

He’d put Bertie’s tag on his chain with shaking hands before they took the body. He didn't _care_ if it was against the rules. _He needed something to remember Bertie by._

He was hungry.

He was so hungry.

His hands shook as he curled deeper into his arms.

He was so, so hungry.

“Tim?” A voice said from where the door was, stepping into his bunkspace. 

Tim looked up.

His eyes were probably bloodshot. “ _What?_ ” He didn't even try to keep the venom out of his voice, the boiling anger at someone _talking to him._

Tim vaguely recognized the person, one of the newer recruits. 

Well, one of the older new ones. Probably well passed the period they were supposed to be deployed for. No one on this fucking rock was getting home till either the Kaiser stopped being a fucking coward and pulled the trigger and killed the queen or was dead.

A fucked up game of chess they were in, and he was a goddamn pawn.

“..Food’s done.” The person, the face Tim refused to learn the name of. He didn't want to associate with them. He was never getting attached to anyone here again. They’ll just die. Everyone he could possibly love would just die. There was no point. “You haven’t eaten in days.”

“Fuck off.”

“Look, more than one person died. Not all the corpsemeat is him.”

“I said _fuck. off._ ”

“You need to eat _something._ ” The person stepped forward and Tim wanted to _kill them._

“Leave me alone.” He snapped and looked up, hand reaching to his gun. 

"Fine! Fine." The person left, and Tim tried not to cry.

After all, the waterline stopped yesterday. No water coming in. And until the team they sent to go find the break in the pipes fixed it, all water was to be rationed.

And crying, of course, is a waste.

Everything here is a goddamn waste.

Hunger pangs kept him awake.

Kept him aware.

And he could _smell_ the meat. He could smell it just a few rooms away.

And Tim would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted.

That a desperate, starving part of him wanted to go eat.

Wanted to go eat his compatriot's flesh.

Wanted to stop the churning pain in his stomach.

A few minutes later, or maybe a half-hour, or maybe more, (Tim’s time blindness only got worse without the sun to tell by), the same person as before knocked and stepped in.

In their hands, they held a plate. On it a cut of meat.

Tim glared.

“I’m just going to leave this here for you.” They set it down and stepped out. 

And sitting here, with the revolting food that was _Bertie,_ Tim cried.

That meat was _Bertie._

He didn't know for certain but _he felt it._

That was Bertie.

That meat was _Bertie._

But soon he stood up and took the plate, and with hands shaking, stabbed it with the fork and took a bite.

He sobbed through every bite, sobbed through every morsel. 

But he chewed.

He swallowed.

He choked it down.

Meat is Meat.

Food is Food.

He almost threw up, after he finished.

Nauseous, world spinning as he curled up on his bunk, Bertie’s blanket and pillow around him.

Tim cried.

He ate him.

He ate his best friend.

He _ate_ Bertie.

Tim just cried.

His stomach didn't hurt as much, as the headache faded some.

But he ate Bertie.

So did it really matter?

Did any positives _matter?_

He shuddered with sobs. Tears staining his pillow.

He ate Bertie.

There was no coming back from this.

There was no fixing this.

He ate Bertie.

There was no way to go lower than this, right?

(Months later, Tim sits in the Kaiser’s life pod, knowing he’s doomed _everyone,_ and knows that he was wrong. He managed to go lower than eating his best friend. And he sobs, for everyone who has ever existed. For everyone alive on earth. The weight of 9 billion souls on his shoulders. Tim is alone, and unfortunately, he’s alive.)

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @garecc  
> Mechanisms Tumblr: @gunpowderdtim


End file.
